


The Songs of Winter

by vaulthunter



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Civil War, Companions Questline, Dark Brotherhood Questline, Multi, Skaal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaulthunter/pseuds/vaulthunter
Summary: With a bloody civil war ended and the Bear of Markarth crowned High King of Skyrim, the nation settles into an uneasy unity that will either lead them to victory against the coming tyrannous Aldmeri Dominion or add them to the tally of countless nations that have been crushed beneath their boot. Calm beckons the storm, and Skyrim is in for one to shake the world.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Kaidan, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ulfric Stormcloak
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. WHEN SOVNGARDE BECKONS

On this day, Solitude was not the picturesque of Imperial beauty that it had made itself into.

On this day, Solitude was a dancefloor with the fury of battle as its entertainers. Bloodied mounds of corpses in red-and-bronze mail littered the streets, palms opened as if still gripping the hilt of their swords in some ghostly way. Upon the sky that had gone black with night, thick flumes of smoke drifted from the fires that burned down flimsy wooden barricades. The solid stone of some buildings were rocked loose by the flaming boulders trebucheted into the city. Men and women fought in darkened streets with bloodied weapons, the sounds of battle a cacophony and dance that Torbbi Stormblade knew well.

“Press forward!” she commanded, jutting her sword into the air to heed her unit. Dawnbreaker set the darkness around them alight, looking more like a golden scepter than a weapon capable of wreaking insurmountable carnage.

Bellows of war cries sounded above the thrumming of war drums and the clash of steel on steel as a hundred men rushed forward, funneling around Torbbi, through the shattered barricades that had been guarding the gates and into the city. They were blurs of blue leathers and brown furs, the white bear’s head of a sigil etched proud into the cloaks that billowed behind them. 

They were outnumbered. This, Torbbi knew before they had even neared the city to charge. Imperial numbers entwined with Stormcloaks, gleaming swords dicing through the air like so many magpies. Shields met shields and the mounds of corpses grew in girth. Torbbi joined her men at the head. Dawnbreaker was a golden mist as it arced through the air and cut through the man in red in front of her, dead before he could switch his bow for a sword to defend himself with. Torbbi rounded and her shield caught the oncoming blow of a greatsword. She swung her sword around her shield, into the soldier’s gut - that tender spot on a man’s side that a breastplate can’t protect, lest he sacrifice his mobility. 

The Stormcloak to her left roared with the fury of battle, taking the hill as he barged his shield into one of the Imperials before they could strike a fellow Stormcloak from behind. His sword sunk deep into the Imperial’s neck and he yanked it free, whirling to offer a wide grin at Torbbi as she picked off another Imperial. “Dragonborn!” growled Ralof. “Sweating yet?”

“Glad to see you got off your mother’s teat to join us, Ralof,” she huffed with a crooked smile, pummeling her shield into an Imperial charging at her. The man stumbled, toppled over, his heavy steel armor clattering noisily with the fall. Torbbi dug the tip of Dawnbreaker into the knot in his neck. As blood fountained from the wound, he drew his last spluttering breath, and she moved forward.

Ralof cackled, joining her side. His axes were unpredictable twins as they lacerated his enemies. “And where’s the man of the bloody hour?”

Torbbi’s dragonbone shield deflected the blows of the greatsword she was dancing with. The flurry of attacks beat like a mallet upon a drum, but she dug her heels into the ground that had gone slick with gore and held her position, waiting for the warrior to tire and pause before she lashed out with Dawnbreaker. Truthfully, she had not seen Ulfric since the beginning of the battle, but this did not seed her with any undue worry.

“You’ll hear him,” she said to Ralof matter-of-factly, finally bringing Dawnbreaker around to slice the warrior’s neck just as he was taking a brief pause in his onslaught. Three breaths on that one before he, too, joined his brethren in their early graves.

They’d breached the portcullis into Solitude. The Imperials were beginning to panic, their movements becoming choppier, more influenced by that deadly sort of adrenaline that was born out of a desperation to survive the battle rather than win it. They dispersed through the streets like a flock of frightened birds as the Stormcloaks flooded into their domain, high on their tails. One Stormcloak took the liberty of running at the headsman’s block lingering bloodied on the courtyard scaffold - the same block that had seen the head severed off the man that let Ulfric flee the city after killing High King Torygg - and hurling it over the bannister, where several more Stormcloaks joined to beat it to splinters with their axes. Chaos was imminent. Torbbi lost Ralof somewhere in the thick of battle as she fought, but she retained confidence that he was fine. His presence was replaced with the growls and battle-rushed cackles and thunderous blows of Galmar Stone-Fist, whose name was not mere formality.

Where Galmar fought, Ulfric was never far behind. The ground began to quake as the voice of thunder cut through the clash and prattle of the fighting. “ _ Fus _ !” The voice of dragons set a tremor in the earth, causing several men in red armor to be hurled into the cobblestone walls of the battlements. Across the perimeter, there he stood, an axe in each hand, his fur-trimmed robes adorned with chainmail and steel armor pieces. Tattered dirty blonde hair hung free around his shoulders, strands of it being picked up by the force of his Voice. 

Torbbi was upon him in moments. She cut through the Imperials beginning to surround Ulfric like they were pieces of wet parchment paper, bashing her shield into heads, slicing flesh with her sword, kicking out ankles with greaved feet and side-stepping away from oncoming counter-blows. 

“Forward, men!” Ulfric commanded, his gruff, orotund voice returning to its normalcy but retaining the strength of the dragon behind it. 

Invigorated, the Stormcloaks heeded his call, pressing further into the city. Some stopped to kick down the doors of noble houses and rouse cowering Empire ambassadors from their hiding spots, into the battle. “Death to the Empire!” came their cries. “Kill the traitors!” The Jarl’s courtyard was upon them, blocked off with an iron portcullis. The battlements were manned with archers whose arrows hailed down upon the Stormcloak ranks amassing the area. Flaming arrows darted through the sky, finding homes in the hearts of the men in blue below. 

“Tullius!” Ulfric growled, voice calling out above the clamor. “Face me, coward! Raise the portcullis or I will break it down!”

“Aim for the Dragonborn!” Tullius barked. 

Torbbi’s glare shot up, bright yellow eyes piercing the gaze of the Imperial General for only a split second’s worth of a confrontation before she had to yank her shield up to block her head from the hail of arrows. Stormcloak soldiers began crowding around her as Ulfric cried out for them to form a shield wall. Bodies shoved around her and darkness overtook them as shields were raised to form a make-shift ceiling over their heads. Arrowheads pattered hard against them. 

The sweat and smell of death and blood was overwhelming. Torbbi would be the last to admit it, but tight spaces set her stomach turning. She growled in frustration and, a panic beginning to boil in her, began tunneling her way out of the bodies, shoving past them with strong, armored forearms. Her plaited platinum blonde tresses were wet with her own sweat, a few stray strands plastered to the skin of her face and neck. The black coal forming a band across her eyes was smeared and streaked with the grime she’d accumulated from being sprayed with so much blood. She had to get out. She felt dirty, flustered, overwhelmingly hot. 

She shoved herself a path free of the clustered bodies, emerging into the cool, open night air at the foot of the portcullis. Relief came as a leased floodgate did. Tullius’s hand shot into the air to signal his archers to pause, eyes narrowing as if he was curious of what she intended to do. Torbbi’s breath of relief was immediately followed with her glare sharpening and hardening to steel, darting up to the General’s.

Breaths coming labored, she slammed her shield into the ground, resting a palm on the edge of it. She squared her shoulders, inhaled deep the ancient history that surrounded this blackened place, yellow wolf’s blood eyes glued to their target.

She inhaled the air of battle and exhaled the Voice of the Dragon.  _ “O-dah-viing!”  _

Her Voice shook the battlements, rattled the portcullis and set many of the archers perched on the battlements to their rears, bows scattering across the stone. A pregnant, eerie silence followed for a brief moment as Torbbi locked eyes with the General. Then, a roar sounded in the high distance as a black, winged silhouette began to dart in and out of its shroud of clouds in the sky. Tullius broke his stare with Torbbi as he looked around, horror dawning slow on his expression. His archers were clambering to their feet, gazes going to the skies.

“DRAGON!”

That first hiss of terrible confirmation was all it took to set off a sea of turmoil. 

“Get back,” Torbbi commanded, hoisting her shield up and beginning to back away from the portcullis. “Get  _ back _ !”

The shield wall dispersed as the Stormcloak forces retreated. Ahead, the winged profile dived for the courtyard. Emerald-green scales gleamed bright under the moonlight as it swept past the Stormcloak army, casting a gust of wind that sent some of the men stumbling - not Torbbi. She watched with eyes of iron as Odahviing’s jaws parted, coming from it a beautiful and terrible gift, tendrils of blazing hot flames setting the bulwark afire. The Imperials screamed and hollered, jumping from their battlements rather than risk being taken by the fires only to fall to their crumpling deaths. Odahviing roared, massive wings beating against the sky, besetting a still night with a howling, furious wind. 

“Retreat!” Tullis cried, clenching the hilt of his sword tight as he made a run for the stairs leading off the portcullis’s battlements. “RETREAT!”

Torbbi’s eyes followed the dragon as it let loose upon the city another bout of fire-breath. Flames took over the roads like mad blankets, crackling noisily as the bodies of the Imperials fed its girth. Their screams were short-lived, some attempting to run while others collapsed on impact, clawing desperately at the spots on their bodies that had been enveloped in the lethal orange-and-gold fires. 

It took only seconds for the courtyard to clear. 

“By the Nine,” Ralof breathed, coming to Torbbi’s side. His lips were parted in awe, face aglow with the reflection of the flames.

Ulfric was right behind him, brow furrowed in what could have been denial or horror or both.

Odahviing swooped into the courtyard and reemerged on the other side of the portcullis, slamming through it with the force of a hurricane, heralded in by a funnel of fire. Molten iron spilled into the cracks of the cobblestone, wooden splinters smattering the army. They did not stand on ceremony.

“Hold the courtyard!” Ulfric screamed. “Come on. We go for Tullius.” He ushered for Galmar and Torbbi to join him, moving towards the doors leading into the undercroft of the Blue Palace. Imperial reinforcements were flooding into the courtyard behind them, but they resigned to the fact that cutting off the dragon’s head rendered its body useless. 

Ulfric kicked in the door and it splintered down the middle, shattering into a pile of debris at the floor. The trio filed into the dimly-lit chamber.

“Get back, General!”

Rikke was a familiar face. She held out an arm to yank Tullius behind her, knees bent and sword readied in a way that indicated she was ready to die for this cause. 

“Secure the door,” Ulfric barked, and Galmar moved to shove a tall, rectangular display case over the ruined doorway. Torbbi adjusted her grip on her sword as she moved around the table, ready.

It was a modest room, but tainted with Imperial influence all the same. The bejeweled trinkets and golden statuettes littering the desks situated around the room were testimony to what the Empire truly cared about. In the center, the drawing table was messied, pawns knocked over and map wrinkled and stained with ink droplets. Inside the castle, the quiet was eerie and foreign to Torbbi’s ears, having been in the thick of a cacophonous battle for hours, and their voices echoed off the stone walls. Fighting could still be heard outside, the muffled roaring of the dragon, but it was all like a foggy dream. 

Years, they had braced for this day, this moment. Torbbi’s heart was a drum beating against her chest as she tightened her grip on the hilt of Dawnbreaker. She was not even a native to Skyrim, and only recently did she ascribe to their pantheon, but still it felt personal. Still, Tullius’s dull, battle-hardened glare filled her with a fury that ran hot through her dragon’s blood. That cowed man, hiding behind his Legate. It was a temerity that beckoned Torbbi to fly into a frenzy. He would prosecute a people he did not even know, did not even understand, and his existence was an existence defined by the lives he took and the blood he spilled.

No more.

“Ulfric. Stop.” Rikke was a tall, imposing woman of broad, tense shoulders and a girth to be reckoned with beneath her scratched Imperial armor. Her stance, Torbbi noted, was practiced, knees bent at just the right angle to ensure her legs didn’t lock before she lunged in a hopeless attempt to defend her Empire. 

But there was sadness in her gaze, too, buried beneath the anger, the hurt, the courage. Perhaps regret, too, but this was buried so deep it could only be concluded by the frown etched into her lips as her eyes passed between the three assailants circling her. 

Ulfric’s fingers twitched against the hilt of his axes, as if a part of him wanted to set them down, too. “Stop what?” he retorted. “Taking Skyrim back from those who would leave her to rot? You were there with us. You saw it. The day the Empire signed that treaty was the day the Empire died. It is weak, obsolete. Look at how far we’ve come and with so little! Put down your blade, Rikke.”

“We need the Empire, Ulfric,” she exclaimed, tone turning into more plea than demand. “Without it, Skyrim will assuredly fall to the Dominion. Are you so foolish that you would let it?”

“When we’re done rooting out Imperial influence here,” Ulfric decreed, taking a step forward as Rikke took a step back, “Then we will take our war to the Aldmeri Dominion. Skyrim will never be threatened again with this prattle.”

“Stand aside, woman,” Galmar input, slamming a fist into the table that rocked it and sent several more pawns toppling over. Rikke pivoted, blade turning on Galmar as she hissed warningly. “We’ve come for the General.”

“He has given up. But I have not.”

Torbbi’s eyes narrowed on her. She was wrong. Yet she knew she would die and still her spine held iron as she faced them, and despite the sudden tremor in her fingers, her hand did not falter from where it gripped her blade. 

“Rikke, go,” Ulfric demanded, waving his sword towards the door. “You’re free to leave.”

“I am also free to stay and fight for what I believe,” she growled.

Ulfric paused, then lower, “You’re also free to die for it.”

The Legate whirled her sword, slamming the tip of it into the ground. Her hand rested atop the hilt like it was a cane. “This is what you wanted?” she exclaimed. “Shield brothers and sisters killing each other? Families torn apart? This is the Skyrim you wanted, Ulfric? No. That is not the Skyrim I want to live in. If I die here, I make my stand here.” She grabbed her sword and whirled it. “Talos preserve us.”

Tullius’s sheath shrieked as he drew his blade from it. Torbbi flourished her sword at the General as Galmar and Ulfric danced with Legate Rikke, axes and greatsword against sword and shield. Torbbi raised her shield to parry Tullius’s initial blow. He backed away on nimble feet, sidestepping as she moved in to hook her blade into him. She grunted as he thrust his shield at her, sliding back on her heels and digging in hard to the ground to catch herself before she stumbled. 

Her weight served her well. She was bigger than Tullius, taller by a head with significantly wider hips and muscle that showed through the thin fabric between her breastplate and groinplate. She rounded her shield, grasping it hard on her forearm, and shoved into him, pushing forward with all of her weight as she drove him backwards into the table. He yelped as he toppled into it, sending the remaining trinkets on it scattering. He rolled out of the way just in time to dodge Dawnbreaker coming down at him.

Beside her, Legate Rikke was making Ulfric and Galmar sweat. She fought with her back close to the wall, using it to protect her flank, while her shield threatened Galmar as he circled around her for an opening and her sword danced against Ulfric’s axes. Tullius regained his footing and huffed, wailing as he moved back in on Torbbi. Whatever personal vendetta he had against her ran hot as he shouldered into her with his shield, bringing his sword around in an arc. It slammed against Dawnbreaker and a crack spread down the middle of his steel blade. Panic beseeched Tullius’s eyes and there was a brief pause of eye contact between him and the Dragonborn, the calm before the storm.

She didn’t give him time to process. She dropped her shield and took Dawnbreaker in both hands, plunging it so hard and deep into the Imperial that his armor split. Blood spilled from his gut, down the blade like rivulets of water, soaking Torbbi’s hands. She lifted him off the ground, digging Dawnbreaker deeper into him, crying with strength and exhaustion and victory as she watched his eyes for that final gleam of life.

He went limp and she yanked her blade free. Across from her, Ulfric’s axe was hooking into Rikke’s throat, and the woman, too, went limp as blood spurted from her throat. Ulfric’s breaths came labored as he slowly lowered his axes. Weary, pale blue eyes turned over his shoulder, meeting the bright yellow of Torbbi’s, and his shoulders slacked at the contact. 

“She didn’t have to die,” he uttered.

“Foolish woman,” Galmar agreed, shaking his head. 

“Come on. We have an army to address.”

Torbbi stepped over the General’s gasping body on her way out. Galmar shoved the display case out of their way, and they stepped into the carnage that had become the courtyard of Castle Dour. Flames licked at the walls in a deadly dance that had black clouds of smog settling over the city. The smell was an assault on Torbbi’s nostrils, heavy with the sour scent of burning flesh and metal. She looked to the sky, eyes searching it for the dragon she had called upon, but he was gone, leaving behind a desecrated army and a victorious army. In this war, these were the only two viable options. 

The Stormcloaks gathering around the courtyard were covered in blood and grime, their leathers scratched and ripped, mail dented, swords dripping thick, red ichor over the grooves. Their faces were dismal and weary, but there was hope, too, the indefinite sort that came with a terrible age ended. 

Ulfric sheathed his axes, stepping forward on leather fur-trimmed boots. His calculating gaze scanned over the faces looking to him for guidance. He squared his shoulders, breathing deep. 

“This is it, men,” he called. “We’ve made this city ours. We came to this moment carried by the sacrifices and the courage of our sisters and brothers. Those who have fallen, and those still holding the line. On this day, our enemy witnessed the fullness of our determination, the true depth of our anger and the exalted righteousness of our cause. The Nine are watching. The spirits of our ancestors are stirring. And the men and women under stars yet to dawn will be defined by what we did here today. Fear neither pain, nor darkness.”

Sounds of hilts beating against shields rang out. “For Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands, and courage in their hearts!” Ulfric ended. The beating grew louder and was joined by the victorious cries of the soldiers, so weak with relief that they didn’t mind how ridiculous they looked. 

“The age of oppression has come to an end,” said their leader. “Now we look ahead, to the horizon, where the sacrifices our people made will be put to use.”


	2. Daughter of Skyrim

Solitude settled uneasily into its new regime. 

Imperial banners - a black dragon on a field of red - were replaced with the banner of the Stormcloaks, a white bear’s head on blue. In time, it would be the only banner to wave in Solitude, but for today, it was a hub of all Skyrim had to offer. Tapestries of all colors and sigils billowed in the spring’s warm breeze serving as marks of attendance for the hold’s ruling Jarls that had traveled to Solitude for their new High King’s coronation. This coronation hardly came with a celebration, however. It was a threat to Jarls that supported the Empire that if they did not swear their fealty to Ulfric Stormcloak on this day, they would die as assuredly as their Empire did. 

They still dressed up the threat and made it look pretty, though, Torbbi noted with some interest. She had been in Skyrim for two years now, but still wasn’t quite accustomed to all the vibrant colors its people employed. She was used to unforgiving winters and villages blanketed with snow, lifeless trees stretching into the sky like the jutting bones of mangled rib cages. Eastern Skyrim was more familiar than the West, where summer existed and thrived. Spring weather to its natives was scorching hot to a Nord such as Torbbi, who sat with flushed skin beaded with sweat in her chair at the high table. The gown she wore was of velvet and wool, dyed black and silver as was befitting her status as Dragonborn, but so thick and heavy that it made her want to shred it from her skin. 

She fanned at her face with her hand in a futile attempt to cool down as she watched the festivities around her. Tables piled with all sorts of strange delicacies and fruity-smelling wines were positioned around the courtyard. They couldn’t clear the rubble and debris from the battle fast enough to make room for those tables, but they made do - as was obvious, this was no harmonious ceremony. The battle was won by the Stormcloaks, but it hardly rooted out all resistance among the nobility.

“You don’t wear dresses easily, Stormblade.”

The voice came like ice, chilling her spine. She turned in her high-backed chair, eyes befalling the man of the hour. How he was able to stand being dressed in that big fur cloak was an envious mystery to her. Her eyes followed him as he moved to take the seat next to her, his designated spot that had Windhelm’s heraldry draped over the back.

“Dresses are not an unconquerable enemy to me,” Torbbi responded with some degree of irritation. “It is this heat. You intend to retain Windhelm as your capital, I hope?”

Ulfric laughed, a roar that came easily from his chest. “The seat of my father, yes, of course. Solitude has much too pomp and politics for my taste, though tradition decrees that the High King takes up residence here,” he answered. “I admit I’m… surprised you have stuck by my side for so long, Dragonborn. You hardly owe any loyalties to Skyrim.”

She shifted, picking at a pile of candied grapes on the silver platter in front of her. There was a band of musicians twiddling lutes and blowing into flutes to her left, and with such hypersensitive hearing, it only contributed to the agitation brought by not just the heat, but all the attention she was receiving from Ulfric’s guests and the man himself. 

“I found reasons to owe loyalty to it, even so,” she responded, choosing her words carefully. Talking to Ulfric was much like walking on eggshells - eggshells that she would normally trample over without regard, but he was a High King now, and that warranted respect no matter how much she contributed to making him so. “It is not as if I can return to my people. You know this.” She dropped her voice so as to not be overheard.

He sobered, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “Just so. Make a home wherever your journeys take you, Dragonborn.”

The words were different, but familiar, and tasted of bitter salt. For just a moment, she could imagine a darker-skinned man with black hair and bright red eyes in place of Ulfric’s cooler colors. A smile was on his lips that held all the honesty and warmth that Ulfric didn’t possess and all the pride that he did. Your home is with me, Dragonborn, he said. Wherever your journeys lead you.

Torbbi frowned, brow creasing as she shut the intrusive memories off. “You intend to release me from your service?” she inquired, a tightness in her voice that dismayed her. In her languages, the language of the dov and the language of the Skaal, she was good at suppressing the things she felt, but in the Nordic tongue, she was as bare as her heart being worn on her sleeve. Torbbi’s anger came as palpable as her excitement.

“I brook no ownership over your blade,” he said with a shrug. “I imagine you’ll return to your Companions now that the war is over, no?”

She couldn’t be surprised at his indifference, truly. He had what he wanted. Torbbi didn’t agree with Ulfric Stormcloak in many ways, but the debt she owed to him was a debt paid in blood - not just her own, but the Imperial army that consisted of many Skyrim natives. A debt paid was a debt paid and she couldn’t argue with being given freedom, but… Admittedly, the thought of not having a goal, not having another battle to fight, filled her with dread.

She couldn’t go back to the Companions. She couldn’t go back to him. 

She smiled, if only to stop herself from gritting her teeth. “I’ll find something to do, I’m sure.”

Ulfric returned her smile, though it hardly reached his eyes. “You’re welcome to remain in my employ, of course. I only thought that the Dragonborn has better things to do, stronger enemies to kill, than looking after a king.” 

Skyrim had no shortage of enemies to kill. Bandits and raiders were in high population throughout the land, lying in wait inside abandoned fortresses and mountain caves for unsuspecting travelers to rob blind. These days, ‘Dragonborn’ meant ‘someone who runs errands’ more than it meant ‘dragon-killer’. Torbbi made a point of not engaging dragons anymore - she would take from nature nothing that did not need to be taken for her survival. That was her way. That was the way of the Skaal. But without the dragon hunting aspect of the person she had made herself into during her time in Skyrim, and without the title of Harbinger of the Companions, she was left to finding lost family swords, clearing out draugr and spiders from troublesome ruins, and collecting herbs for old crone alchemists. And looking after a king, of course.

Despite her titles ringing hollow, Ulfric spared no expense when it came to dressing her up as she was. The high-backed chair she sat in had arms in the likeness of dragon jawbones, to which her fingers rested against the nostrils of the left-side one. A black banner hung over the back of it that displayed a silver long, serpentine dragon wrapped around a rearing wolf - the sigil was also Ulfric’s idea. He’d gifted her with a circlet made of onyx with a dragon’s head crested in the middle, eyes made of rubies, and this was braided into her silver hair now. You’re the Dragonborn, Ulfric had explained just before the coronation, when she stood before a looking glass adjusting the circlet, Let the people see. 

But being Dragonborn was not defined by pretty jewelry made in the image of dragons and fancy mail-gowns. When the people heard her Voice, when they saw her skin turn to scales and her breath turn to fire, only then would they see. 

She didn’t pick up the conversation again, settling into a tense silence. Solitude’s courtyard was filled with the sort of wild dancing that Torbbi could only describe as ‘forget my problems’ dancing, arms flailing and legs gyrating around the hearthfire in the center. People paused in their partying only to lay jewels, flowers, and gifts of golden trinkets at the feet of their High King and their Dragonborn. Men Torbbi had spilled blood alongside wore finery and heavy furs now rather than their leather armors, faces clean of the dirt and muck of battle. It looked wrong, relief and victory. The civil war had been plaguing Skyrim even before Torbbi arrived. Part of her never felt like more of a foreigner knowing that she was not here for the beginning, but saw it through to the end. 

She said her dues. Congratulations to Ulfric. Comradery for Ralof and Galmar Stone-Fist. Hello and gratitude for coming to the various Jarls in attendance. She said ‘thank you’ too much and too loudly each time another gift was laid at her feet, to which Ulfric chastised her for. They are thanking you for your service, he’d said. You don’t thank someone for thanking you. She indulged the ale perhaps a bit too much and humored a clumsy, red-faced dance with Galmar that was more giggling than dancing. She danced with Ralof, too, and Jarl Skald, and one of the half-naked dancers entertaining the guests - she was much more light on her feet and graceful than Torbbi was. Ralof somehow managed to talk Torbbi into playing her rhythms on a drum he ‘borrowed’ from one of the bards; slightly intoxicated though she was, she retained all of her talent when it came to playing. Faces began to blur a bit as feasting turned into playful brawling and playful brawling turned into more dancing and back again, but she was not so inebriated that she didn’t hear the clank of a mug being beat against the table.

“...the bear dived down, shredding right through my armor! There was blo-” Ralof trailed off and the both of them turned to face the high table, where the beating was sounding from. 

Ulfric was standing next to what could only be identified as a priest of the Nine. The man was draped in robes of blue and violet and silver, face obscured beneath a wide-brimmed hood and the shadows of night that had fallen over the jubilous city. In his hands, a crown of gold and dragonbone rested atop a velvet blue pillow. He kept his head bowed as Ulfric’s voice rang out at the quieted celebrations. 

By force of habit, her bright yellow eyes flickered to the night sky, where hazes of clouds drifted lazily over clusters of stars, illuminated by the glow of the moons hiding behind it. Torbbi had learned, in her years of tenure in possessing the wolf’s blood, that the moon was her compass in predicting when she would need to go. Its shape, its light, how high it hung in the sky. Tonight, she would be safe - or rather, the people of the city. It would not remain that way for much longer. She knew that when her heartbeat started to pulse louder in her ears, the time was nearing. 

Ulfric’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She was standing near the portcullis, shoulder leaning against the stone frame to keep her upright. Her legs had started to feel a bit like jelly after a dozen drinks. 

“Sons and daughters of Skyrim,” Ulfric called, raising his arms. A flute of wine was in one of them and a smile gleamed from behind his blonde beard. “Today officially marks an age of renewal for our people. Rejoice, friends! Rejoice in knowing that the beliefs of the Nords are sacred and protected, and never again will we be cowed into hiding them, into hiding the Almighty Talos! I owe my victories to the brothers and sisters who sacrificed their lives for our cause. To my ever-dutiful steward, Jorleif, who never missed a beat in ensuring our war was funded and taming the finer aspects of Windhelm while I tempered the rebellion.”

Ralof nudged Torbbi with his elbow, a crooked grin on his lips. He laughed when he caught her gaze. 

“To Galmar Stone-Fist, who has stood by my side for as long as I have possessed one. And to the Dragonborn, most of all!” His icy pale gaze flickered about the crowd for her face, and his smile broadened when he found it and gestured for her to join him. 

Torbbi, as if to make sure he was talking to her, pointed at her chest and tossed a look over her shoulder. Ulfric laughed. “Come, Dragonborn, let the people see you!”

She lifted her skirts so as to not dirty them in all the spilled wine and dropped food dotting the cobblestone as she walked with a bowed head to Ulfric’s side. She was hardly accustomed to attention. There had been cheers and celebration after the fall of the World-Eater, but there were no formal parties and coronations held in her honor with mounds of people cheering her name. Such was how people who saved the world were, though; once the trouble passed, the people tended to forget who stopped it. 

Not that she had any qualms with the lack of reverence. She was Skaal no longer, but she retained their values, and chief among them were remaining humble. One was expected to do what was necessary for the survival and continuation of the tribe without expectancy of recognition or a reward. Vanity led to greed and greed led to selfishness, and selfishness was a luxury that they couldn’t afford living in the treacherous mountains of Solstheim where the unforgiving winter never ended. All this to say that she was not comfortable with a torch being held in her honor, but Torbbi made many exceptions for Skyrim’s Ulfric Stormcloak.

His hand moved to rest on her shoulder as she reached his side, a touch that was intended to be a show of comradery, but somehow felt more intimate than that. They were roughly the same height, with Torbbi standing just an inch or two taller. His arm touched more of her than it should have with the gesture.

“Our Torbbi Stormblade, who led the final charge against our Imperial oppressors,” Ulfric announced, waving his bottle of mead in solidarity. “She saved Skyrim from a dance with dragons and she saved her again from the people that would see everything that makes us Nords stamped out. Raise a mug to her!”

Cheers broke out, which made Torbbi flinch. A hundred hands rose in the air with mugs cradled in the palms, their owners’ mouths open as they hooted and hollered. She wondered if their enthusiasm could be attributed more to a genuine appreciation for her contribution, or the alcohol. Either way. 

Ulfric downed the remainder of orange liquid in his bottle and tugged Torbbi close to his side in a one-arm hug, laughing. “Afraid your face might crack if you smile, Stormblade?” he asked.

She gave him a pensive look. “I’m not unhappy,” she admitted. “Just… uneasy.”

She looked back to the crowd that had not settled as Ulfric continued. “A bit of reverence never hurt anyone, you know. Drink it up. Drink this, too. Hah!” He pushed a mug of ale into her hand, then stepped past her to seemingly confer with Galmar about some matter she had not been given an invite to.

She stood like a lost hound, sipping amiably at the mug before discomfort led her to sit down in the chair designated for her. The people returned to their conversations, brawling, and dancing, a never-ending flurry of bodies moving about in the dim light of the moon and the torches hanging from sconces around the battlements. It was hard to believe that only a few weeks ago, that flurry had been born of battle rather than celebration. This must be what the priests spoke of when they described instances of feeling like they’ve experienced this event before. 

When Ulfric finished conferring with Galmar, he accepted his crown and was officiated as Skyrim’s High King. It was a rather unceremonious affair. A holy rite was spoken by the priest and witnessed by several other men and women in blue robes. One of the many drunkards was throwing up on the portcullis on the other side of the courtyard. Ulfric knelt and rose again with a crown upon his head, a smile on his full lips that reached his intense eyes in a way Torbbi had not yet seen before.

She beat her mug against the table as the Jarls surrounding her did.

“If any would challenge me for this crown,” said Ulfric, palm resting against the hilt of one of his axes. “Now is your time.” 

It was a gesture met with a pregnant silence. Torbbi looked out at the gathered crowds, recognizing many of the faces. Hadvar, who had been there with an offer to lead her to safety during the burning of Helgen, standing now with a bitter expression and a drink in hand. Would it be him to challenge the High King? No. Her eyes passed to Jarl Elisif, High King Torygg’s widow, and wondered if the woman could hold a sword well enough to pose her own challenge. No. If anything, she would send a champion in her stead. Maven Black-Briar, impromptu leader of Riften that influenced the court through the shadows. Ulfric’s victory wasn’t sitting well with her. Neither was the alcohol she sipped bitterly at, judging by her flushed cheeks and frustrated, creased brow.

Jarl Siddgeir, who set aside his throne in favor of the now-Jarl Dengeir. The courtyard was filled with ample Imperial supporters, yet none stepped forward. Ulfric had to laugh. “Nobody? This would not be a true party without a little bloodshed. Nobody would test their mettle against their High King?”

“So be it, then. To commemorate my right as Skyrim’s High King,” Ulfric announced, “I will travel alongside my second, Galmar Stone-Fist, and the Dragonborn herself, Torbbi Stormblade, to the mountains on the outskirts of the city to slay a mighty dragon. Since the fall of the World-Eater, dragons have become one of the many dangerous natural attractions of our country. To prove to you all that your High King’s protection does not stop at Imperial dogs, and to make up for the excitement this celebration lacks, I will bring you back the head of a dragon!”

Cheers erupted from the crowd, calling out Ulfric’s name. Torbbi stalled, gawking at the High King in horror as he drank in the worship from his people. Some Jarl from Dawnstar nudged her with his elbow to remind her she had better join in, lest she disappoint, but Torbbi stayed her hand. 

Ulfric approached her. “What say you, Dragonborn?” he prompted, towering over her. 

Her expression hardened. “You shouldn’t take from the land what you don’t need to survive,” she growled. 

She expected him to grow angry, but instead a grin broke out on his lips. “Inspiring fear in my people is what I need to survive the throne,” he said. “And what better way to do that than to slay a dragon?”


End file.
